Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 86

Three hundred and eighty-nine days did Miserth Keep withstand the armies of the Imperium, three hundred and eighty-nine days did the Word Bearers make slaughter in their city-sized fortress. On the seventy-fourth day did Imperial Guardsmen set foot through the first broken gate, led by 4th Captain Davold, at the cost of fifteen regiments and thirty-three Raven Guard. On the hundred and seventieth day did Captain Davold fall, grappling with a Possessed fiend that snapped the sanity of lesser men at a glance. His death opened the way for 8th Captain Juxos to penetrate the second line of bastions. On the two hundred and fiftieth day the Word Bearers did summon a host of Daemons that killed Captain Juxos, along with a hundred and two Raven Guard and fifty-one regiments entire, the most bitter day the crusaders would ever know. It fell to 10th Captain Nemkir to rally the despairing Imperials, and he did so heroically, grinding the Word Bearers down room by room, barricade by barricade in a textbook assault straight out of the Codex Astartes. Three hundred and eighty-nine days of blood-soaked combat, a meatgrinder where it was quicker to count the living than the dead, but victory was at last claimed when Nemkir emerged from the Fane of Chaos.

Down a flight of black steps he trudged, armour cracked and generator stack chugging fumes. His plate was scored of all heraldry, subtle as it had been, now it was bare Ceramite head to toe. Weary was his tread, slow his movements and his voice was hoarse on the vox as he called for Guardsmen to secure the site. The Fane of Chaos burned, the last blasphemies of the Word Bearers guttering out. Librarian Axaris lay within, along with an entire squad of Terminators, the vaunted Deliverers. They had given their lives to prevent the summoning of a Greater Daemon, fighting valiantly to avert disaster. They had succeeded, the summoning failed when the last Traitor fell, but of the kill-team only Nemkir emerged. Last man standing, which made him the victor.

Nemkir swayed drunkenly, his shattered kneecaps giving out. He leaned on a wall, deactivated power fist crumbling bone with sheer weight. The walls were made of powdered bone, the stairs fused femurs and the doorways made of arched ribs. This entire fortress had been fashioned out of human remains, but what truly sickened Nemkir wasn't the fact of depravity, it was that all the victims had been willing. The Word Bearers had corrupted Threahold VII so thoroughly the population had willingly thrown themselves into the flensing pits in praise of the Ruinous powers.

Nemkir's free hand pulled his helm free and he doubled over to vomit blood on the steps. Revulsion and shame had their parts, but he was broken inside too. He could feel shattered bones throughout his body, internal bleeding and shredded muscles. His implants burned like meltaguns as his body sought to reforge itself, but right now his armour was all that was keeping him upright.

The vox-bead crackled, "Captain Nemkir, this is Sergeant Oroton. Captain Nemkir come in."

"Hold…" Nemkir groaned.

"Captain are you injured?" a concerned voice asked.

"Just a moment…"

"Captain, do you require an Apothecary?"

Nemkir forced himself free of the wall and compelled his armour to support his shattered kneecaps. Ground glass worked its way into his nerves with every step but Nemkir set his boots on the next step and resumed his march. The Raven Guard needed to see their Captain was indomitable, unbeatable, especially after such harrowing losses.

He steadied his voice them commanded, "Nemkir to Oroton, the Fane is cleansed, Misereth Keep is ours. Report your situation."

Oroton replied briskly, "Secundus target secured. Nucleonic-furnace is disabled, the Traitor's attempt to drag us to hell with them failed. We have a prisoner, all other Word Bearers are slain. We have suffered many casualties and require Apothecary Arjur, but he is not responding to the vox."

"Arjur is dead," Nemkir stated as he turned a corner and descended.

"Emperor Wept, how many Brothers are left?"

"Forty-seven, out of three hundred."

"Throne!"

"Indeed," Nemkir affirmed, "Maintain position, I shall summon Sanguination teams to extract Gene-seed and Chirugeons to tend our wounded. I am headed to your position, secure the prisoner."

Nemkir strode on, passing through an archway of bone. Beyond the victorious Guardsmen celebrated, cheering and weeping in equal measure. Thousands of brave souls, the lucky few who had lived to see the end of the siege. Under the smoky grey sky they danced and wept and held themselves shivering. Some beat upon their heads with balled fists, as if trying to drive out visions of madness while others laughed till they were sick or tore at each other in orgies of violence and passionate release. Commissars were no use, as brutalised as any other man and the officers were giggling at their own feet. The campaign had broken them in soul, even those who yet drew breath would never be the same.

Nemkir had achieved victory at a cost to make men weep but knew the most bitter part was yet to come. These mortal men and women had seen the corruptions of Chaos firsthand, laid eyes on Daemons and the foul rituals of Chaos. Nemkir understood what the Inquisition would do next; these soldiers' death writs had been signed the moment their regiments committed to the fight. Chaos could not be allowed to spread, and there was only one way to be certain the rot stopped here. Nemkir would not be the one to pull the trigger however, he would take the Raven Guard back to their Battlebarge and return to Deliverance, leaving the Emperor's Left Hand to do what must be done.

"Nemkir to Alacritous Intervention," the Captain voxed.

"Shipmaster Devo reporting," a mortal replied.

"Campaign successfully concluded. Send reclamation and Sanguination teams to reclaim our gear and gene-seed. Wounded Brothers are in dire need, urgent Chirurgical assistance required."

"Understood, shuttles are en-route. Be aware Inquisitorial representatives are demanding to board immediately, to inspect the crew 's purity."

"Permission denied," Nemkir spat, "We are the Raven Guard, a First Founding Chapter. Inquisitorial writ does not surpass our Emperor-given rights. They know this; any Inquisitorial craft violating our perimeter has been subverted by the Word Bearers and is to be shot down."

Devo was silent for a moment then said, "Understood. 10th Captain there is another matter, a Chapter frigate is entering orbit and…"

"It can wait," Nemkir refuted.

"But…"

"I have more pressing duties, I shall contact you after."

Nemkir's walk took him west, passing various dark bastions and soaring templums, twisted parodies of Imperial cathedrals, each a formidable redoubt and unholy chapel in equal measure. The Word Bearers had made a giant shrine to the Dark Gods, using the blood and bone of the populace of the planet as their bricks and mortar. Nemkir had no idea why they would do such a thing, there was no benefit to it he understood and he was glad of his ignorance. To understand Chaos was to embrace madness. Blessed is the mind too small for doubt.

Nemkir saw crimson-clad bodies laid upon the bone-stone and hastened his pace. Across a wide square he marched, entering a twisted templum. The air was hot and fetid, stinking of putrefaction and sickeningly sweet perfume, blood dripped from hanging chasubles, never clotting or running dry and psychedelic substances bubbled in pots everywhere. Chaos Undivided, the four powers honoured as one, the Word Bearers didn't even have the certitude to pick their hell. But of greater sorrow were the grey-bodies laid out among the dead Traitors, Raven Guard killed in the hour of victory.

A score of survivors stood at the central altar. It was a bulky device, etched in foul runes, a Nucleonic-furnace, powerful enough to devastate Miserth Keep and take every last Imperial solider to hell with the Word Bearers. Veteran-Sergeant Oroton had prevented that, he stood with a handful of Initiates and Scout-Novices, his armour slick with the blood of Traitors. Like all Raven Guard he eschewed gaudy markings or glorious heraldry, he was indistinct, shaded, fading into the background. Yet his vaunted status was denoted by the relic combi-plasma he bore, and the four Sternguard Veterans who comprised his squad.

Nemkir let not a hint of his pain show as he strode up to the crowd and proclaimed, "Well met Brothers, you successfully concluded your mission."

Oroton nodded, his face boasting a stunning amount of scars, "It was a close-run thing but our numbers won the day. Attack pattern theta-four-alpha, as you directed."

"A codex-perfect assault, you are to be commended," Nemkir approved.

A snort from the ground cast shame on those words but Nemkir took in the survivors, bloodied and spent but still proud. Many of them were wounded, some barely able to stand, but they were Astartes and did not fall at the last hurdle. Nemkir addressed them, "Brothers, you have sacrificed much and given your all. Your efforts over the last year had secured victory and ended a threat to the Imperium Entire. You deserve laurels and parades, but such is not the way of the Raven Guard. Our reward is to know we performed a deed no others could. The Ravenspire knows of your sacrifices and when we return there you shall hold your heads high in silent dignity."

A cough from below their eyeline, "Ignorant whelps!" Nemkir cast his eyes to a fallen Word Bearer, lying broken upon the floor. His legs were missing, his sword arm mangled. Fell runes of Chaos were carved into his brow but his eyes glittered with superiority. He was broken in body but his spirit endured, defiant to the last.

Oroton explained, "We thought you would wish to question him."

The scum spat, "Yes torture me! Make my screams sound in the palaces of Slaanesh!"

Nemkir did not speak to him but addressed Oroton directly, "You assumed wrong. There is nothing to be learned from the filth of Chaos."

"Let me teach you of Nurgle's blessings!" the cur cackled, "Let me share the hidden mysteries of Tzeentch!"

Nemkir addressed the crowd, "The Traitor is infected by madness, their corruption is insidious and contagious. Stop your ears and close your eyes, shield your thoughts and stay your questions. There is nothing that needs to be known of the traitor save how to end him."

"Yes, kill me! A champion spilling my blood is an act of praise unto Khorne!"

Nemkir turned his eyes to a Scout-Novice, one of his charges from 10th Company, "Novice Thermen, demonstrate the lesson."

The nameless Word Bearer blinked, "Wait… no a champion must kill me! You must kill me, not a whelp. I can't die at the hands of a nobody! This brings no glory to the Dark Gods!"

Nemkir didn't react as Thermen stepped forward and whipped his combat knife over the Traitor's throat. Blood flowed as the Word Bearer gasped airlessly like a fish. Oroton shoved the dying cur over, to flop pathetically in death. Nemkir refused to grant the scum another thought, turning his back and leading the Raven Guard away. Let the Inquisition deal with the dead, he had business with the living.

"We are done here," Nemkir ordered, "Gather the wounded and prepare for extraction."

"Should we not tend to our gear?" Oroton asked.

Nemkir stepped out of the chapel into the light of day, "We can honour our wargear on the Alacritous Intervention. Speaking of which… Nemkir to Devo… Shipmaster we require orbital transports."

Devo replied, "Captain, I'm sorry, we couldn't stop him!"

Nemkir missed a step, "Explain that!"

"He launched immediately on arrival, he is headed for your position!"

Nemkir demanded, "What are you talking about?!"

Devo blurted, "A Hunter frigate, she arrived straight from Deliverance with a single passenger. He's coming to see you, he wouldn't explain why!"

"Who?!" Nemkir demanded.

"Chaplain Bulvok!"

Nemkir came to an abrupt halt as cross-shape fell from the sky, a Shadowhawk, dropping with the fires of re-entry trailing from blunt wings. Nemkir watched silently as the gunship angled towards them, not circling to search the Keep, the passenger knew where he was and wasted no time. That was exactly what one would expect from Chaplain Bulvok.

The Shadowhawk extended landing claws and set down with a blast of downdraft that made Nemkir rock back on his heels. Spikes of agony stabbed into his knees but that was nothing compared to the sense of unease he felt as the ramp slammed onto bone-cobbles. Before the engines cycled down the Chaplain appeared, Bulvok as harsh and direct as ever. His helm was not a skull-mask but instead fronted by rising raven wings and his backpack had a short pole with an effigy of the skeletal Emperor enthroned set atop. His Crozius was in hand but the golden head did not glitter, it was dulled and dross, the better to disappear in the gloom of twilight.

Bulvok strode straight up to them and barked, "Where is Captain Davold?!"

"Passed with honour," Nemkir replied as equally bluntly.

"Captain Juxos then!"

"He feasts at the Emperor's table."

"Then you are in command and must receive my missive. I bear fresh orders from the Chapter Master."

Nemkir blinked in surprise, "Chaplain Bulvok we have just concluded a year-long engagement. We have been fighting and dying for three-hundred and eighty-nine days, our losses are beyond catastrophic. My Marines are in no state for another campaign. The Codex Astartes decrees we must return to Deliverance for reorganisation and retraining, before we can think of committing to another action."

Bulvok had no sympathy, "You must set aside your adoration for the Codex. A crisis has arisen that requires our intercession. The Raven Guard alone can resolve this and your ship is the only force we have deployed in this Segmentum."

Oroton sounded puzzled, "What could possibly mandate our presence, when other Chapters are nearby?"

Bulvok replied bluntly, "This is an issue for the Raven Guard alone. An extant Chapter has been discovered, emerging from warps-storms after thousands of years of isolation. They claim descent from Corvus Corax, they claim to be our long-lost Brothers."

Nemkir was taken aback, "An unsanctioned Chapter appears from nowhere: are they true to the Throne or Heretics?"

Bulvok explained, "That is the question we must answer. By order of Chapter Master Sharrow we are tasked to judge these Smoke Jaguars and discern if they conceal treachery in their hearts. We must uncover any secrets they may be hiding, and if they are indeed Heretics then it falls to us to eradicate them."

Oroton gulped, "We stand at barely a demi-company in strength and you expect us to engage a full Chapter?"

Bulvok's reply was grim, "You have a Battlebarge and I have brought a full payload of Virus Bombs. If the Smoke Jaguars prove false then we shall travel to their homeworld and enact the Exterminatus."